Of Fire, Smoke and Requiems
by Primadonna-Girl-With-Bubblegum
Summary: And they had danced into his lair and he had started playing the organ in his requiem and she had moved as if the devil himself had caught her. And he had played his triumphant, aching music that made her insides boil and her feet move and she had been the only mortal to ever hear it, because she had been the only one capable of doing so. Maybe some Erik/Meg, if one reads closely.


His heart was not hers. It belonged to his beautiful student and her best friend, Christine Daaé, even though her heart in its turn belonged to the Vicomte. He loved her so desperately and she did not love him in return, and yet he was with this little ballerina.  
No, their hearts did not belong to each other, and yet it felt as if they did. They met up at midnight by the stage just like any lovers should, always the same place and the same time – just as Meg had heard the Notre-Dame strike twelve she always rushed down the stairs in a breathless pace to meet _him._

They were not sure exactly when it had started, but sometime during the passed months when Christine had lived with the fop they had begun meeting and then dancing.

It always started in the same way – he would play his violin for her and she would dance until she was panting and sweat was sticking her golden hair to her forehead, and then he would somehow join the dance too.

It was a wild dance, a dance that brought demons from hell up to the opera and made angels stop and watch them. It was a dance fit for the masked demon's requiem that he had written, a dance filled with passion and fire and yet so beautiful.

At first the dance always was innocently calm and, but as minutes passed, it became more and more smoky and dark and fiery.

The moved in perfect sync, accompanied by the organ that played in their head and by their own shallow breathes. A bit in the dance, the angel would give the demon a passionate and wild look and the demon would respond by sweep her into a cloud of smoke and she would _burn_ until she just was a single flame.  
The sleeping opera did never wake during this. Even though the organ played so loudly, even though the angel's bare feet made rough sounds at the floor they never woke.  
Never but one day.

It had been the usual, her rushing down the stairs and them dancing until the dawn woke – and then he had brought her down to his living place.  
They had danced the whole way, she would tell her children many years afterwards and he had screamed for her to _dance, Marguerite! Dance _and she had obeyed. Her children would ask if he'd danced too, and she would remember how he had taken her hands and danced with her in a fiery and breathless pace. They had danced over the lake, danced at the water with the siren's beautiful song accompanying them and she would not remember if she had walked at water or if they had flied over the cold pool of water, but she always thought the first alternative – an angel and a demon dancing over the water with their feet barely touching the cold surface because that picture was the most beautiful in her head.  
And they had danced into his lair and he had started playing the organ in his requiem and she had moved as if the devil himself had caught her. And he had played his triumphant, aching music that made her insides boil and her feet move and she had been the only mortal to ever hear it, because she had been the only one capable of doing so.

In that night, the demon sent from heaven had played the requiem for her to the point where she had collapsed with exhaustion. He had stopped then until her breath was caught, and then he had started again and she had danced and danced and simply _danced_ until the palms of her feet were covered with aching wounds from the stony floor beneath her.  
She had continued dancing even though blood was running from the wounds.

Her children would ask to see her feet then, and she would take them off and yes – beside all of the wounds and oddities cased by her Pointe shoes, one could see scars from many thin wounds covering her feet.

And then, the children had asked if she had loved him.

But Meg had never answered that. She had simply smiled and then got something distant in her eyes.

__


End file.
